Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

Prologue

Physician, Heal Thyself

London

Hands.

We don’t consider them enough.

Taken for granted, our hands don’t get the attention and recognition they deserve. Rather, we abuse them. Use them to abuse. Fondle our fat, loathing our bodies, especially women. We pluck and tug at our face, cursing the years. Never once acknowledging their beauty and strength—those precious instruments that enable us to do almost anything.

I notice mine now. Shaking and cold. The ugly beveled grooves from wrapping my fingers with string over the years. I use my thumb to smudge off the dirt that perspiration hasn’t completely sweated away, revealing the faded black ink along the side of my palm.

My voice cracks on a laugh. I stare at the tattooed key on my flesh until my eyes blur. Sweat leaks into their corners, a biting sting like a needle piercing my vision clear.

Then I look up at all the dangling keys.

A canopy of gleaming silver and bronze and rusted metals held aloft by red string—a blanket woven of blood in the sky. The keys clang together, playing a dark, chiming melody that chills me to the bone.

He knows me.

In my vanity, I concealed the ugly and vile. And yet he saw.

In my profession, your past can be as damning as a wrong diagnosis. Shame is the conception of most sins against ourselves.

A wail rips through the canopy, and I can feel the agony in the gutturalness of it. A scream wrenched from an abyss of never-ending pain. It forces my hand into the air.

I teeter on the rock, bare feet gripping the serrated edge of stone, as I reach for the first key.

Forgive me.

1

Animal

London

“Dr. Noble, can you tell us what the culprit was thinking when he did this?” The lawyer points to a projection screen along the courthouse wall. Magnified for the courtroom, the projected image displays the charred remains of a woman’s mutilated body.

I press my fingers into my kneecap behind the witness stand. My nails snag my sheer stockings, and I mentally curse, craving the feel of my string. Turning toward the screen, I open my mouth.

“Objection, Your Honor. The witness can’t know what the defendant was thinking.”

My gaze flicks to the judge. “Your rebuttal, Mr. Alister,” she prompts the defendant’s lawyer.

Armani suit as dark as his eyes, he smoothes his tie down along his dress shirt. “Dr. Noble is an expert witness, Your Honor. She was called in because she’s an expert in her field, which is insight into the minds of criminal individuals.”

“Disturbed individuals,” the prosecutor says loud enough for the court to hear.

“Don’t make me slam my gavel, Mr. Hatcher.” The judge raises her gavel in warning. “Objection overruled. Dr. Noble was asked to provide testimony of her professional opinion of the defendant’s state of mind. Since she’s come all this way—” Judge Gellar grants me a telling smile, her dark features more youthful when not fixed in a scowl “—I’d like to hear her thoughts.”

The prosecutor clears his throat before taking a seat. My nails sink into my kneecap as I again turn toward the screen. I’m a top psychologist in the field of criminal psychology—not a public speaker. No matter how many times I’ve taken the stand, it never gets easier. I loathe public speaking just as much now as I did in college.

“After examining the defendant, Charles Reker, I believe he displays classic signs of paranoid schizophrenia. In particular, he suffers from a specific delusion: Capgras delusion. Charles Reker, amid this delusion, believed his wife to be a clone—”

“Objection—”

“Sit down and shut up, Mr. Hatcher, or I will hold you in contempt.”

The lawyer looks stricken. “On what grounds?” He quickly backpedals, “Your Honor.”

Judge Gellar circles her gavel threateningly. “On the grounds that interruptions annoy me. Let the witness finish her testimony.”

Pressing my palms onto the chair seat, I steady my voice. “In my professional opinion, the defendant believed his wife was replaced with a clone by the government as a means to spy on him. He believed that by torching the clone, he’d destroy the government's ability to control him.”

Mr. Alister walks around the table and places a hand on his client’s shoulder. “So you do not believe—in your professional opinion—that Charles intended to murder his wife of twenty-four years.”

“No,” I say, bolstering my voice an octave higher. “Charles was unable to distinguish reality from his delusion. His intent was to destroy a clone of his wife. Not his wife. He felt threatened in the midst of his delusional state.”

“Thank you, Dr. Noble. No more questions.”

A sinking feeling tugs at the back of my mind, but I suppress that weakness. A brutal murder occurred, but the man sitting across from me at the defendant’s table—now medicated under my care—is no longer capable of the brutality he exhibited when he violently killed his wife. His eyes reflect remorse. His disorder wouldn’t allow guilt to show through; he’s unable to fake it.

“Would you like to cross examine this witness, Mr. Hatcher?” the judge asks.

“Yes. Thank you, Your Honor.” As the lawyer stands from behind the prosecution’s table, I straighten my back.

The position threads every muscle along my spine with white-hot pain. I part my mouth to inhale a breath and then expel the ache, visualizing the pain as a physical object I can eject from my body.

Hatcher strides to the computer on the roll cart and adjusts the image. We’re given a close-up of Margot Reker’s mutilation. Members of the jury physically react, some averting their eyes.

“Dr. Noble,” he begins with a vain toss of his head. I arch an eyebrow. “Since your expert opinion is so widely sought after, would you expound on why you believe Charles Reker sliced his wife up with a butcher knife after he set her on fire.”

“Objection,” the defense interjects. “Is there a question here, Your Honor? The witness has already provided testimony to her thoughts

on the defendant’s state of mind.”